Page 28 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

He probably remembered how they organized things, too.

The worst part wasn't Kendra's perfect smile or calculated revelations. It was the seed of doubt she'd planted - the idea that maybe this wasn't real at all. Maybe I was just the latest in a series of roles Jack tried on and discarded. The museum girl phase. The redemption arc. The scholar discovering his hidden depths.

Maybe next semester, there'd be another girl standing in this same spot, convinced she was different too.

I gripped the catalog cards tighter, trying to focus on dates and descriptions instead of the hollow feeling in my chest. But each carefully organized note reminded me of Jack's color-coded system, of late nights, discussing literature, of all the little moments I'd thought were just ours.

When Jack showed up twenty minutes later with coffee and that soft smile that made my heart forget how to beat properly, I also tried not to wonder how many others had seen that smile.

I tried not to wonder if they'd all felt this special, this sure, this real.

I tried not to wonder when it would all dissolve like old paper in water, leaving nothing but carefully cataloged memories and the bitter taste of being just another phase in Jack Morrison's story.

But mostly, I tried not to wonder why, despite everything Kendra said, despite all the evidence of history repeating itself, I still wanted to believe we were different.

Maybe that's what all the others thought, too.

"You know," Jack said, carefully lifting a display of bone saws, "most people don't spend their Friday nights reorganizing medical exhibits."

"Most people don't spend their Friday nights helping them, especially after a concussion." I glanced at him over a stack of catalog cards. "You sure you're up for this?"

"Mild concussion!" Jack retorted. "It's been almost a week of rest; I'm good."

"The Bride of Frankenstein?" he asked, nodding toward my laptop, where the classic horror movie played quietly in the background. "Didn't take you for a horror fan."

"The medical science is fascinating, even if it was completely inaccurate." I didn't mention that old horror movies were my comfort watch, my way of making real medical history seem less daunting. "Plus, it's technically research since we're updating the 'Science in Popular Culture' display."

"Right. Research." But he was smiling as he arranged scalpels by date. "Nothing to do with the fact that you've mouthed every line so far."

I threw a cotton glove at him. He caught it with annoying grace.

"Careful," he said, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Wouldn't want to damage any priceless artifacts with your violence."

"They survived the Victorian era. They can survive you."

"Like you survived that blood pressure demonstration today?"

I flushed. Earlier, during a school tour, I'd nearly fainted while demonstrating a Victorian blood pressure cuff. Jack, who'd been walking past the museum after practice, had caught me before I hit the ground.

"I was just dizzy from the historical significance," I said, trying to redirect the conversation away from how he'd held me upright, one hand on my waist, the other cupping my elbow until the world stopped spinning.

"Right." His voice had softened, watching me over the rim of his coffee cup. "Nothing to do with your aversion to actual medical practice?"

How does he know about that? Who told him about my family's expectations? About the fainting incidents in pre-med?

"That's not..." I focused on arranging tongue depressors by size. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

Maybe it was the late hour or the way moonlight made everything seem slightly unreal, but I found myself talking.

"Three generations of doctors," I said, not looking at him. "The Chen Family Medical Legacy. Every dinner conversation, every family gathering, it's all about medicine. And I can't... I mean, I love medical history. The development of techniques, the evolution of understanding. But actual medical practice?" I gestured to the blood pressure cuff. "I can't even demonstrate equipment without getting lightheaded."

"So you found your own way to be part of it," he said. Not judging, just understanding. "Through history."

"What about you?" I asked, wanting to shift the focus. "The Morrison Hockey Legacy?"

He was quiet for a long time, and it felt like the emotional score of a movie filled the silence.

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